


Gone the Sun

by SpinnerDolphin



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hiding, M/M, Meanwhile Crowley and Aziraphale..., Offscreen Castiel is scary, Offscreen character death, Two different Crowleys, sigils drawn with blood, spn season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinnerDolphin/pseuds/SpinnerDolphin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley hide from Castiel and all of Purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“There are several reasons this isn’t going to work,” the demon was saying. Aziraphale did not reply, but the angel did throw him a rather harassed look over one shoulder, so he chalked it up to a win. 

Aziraphale was slowly and painstakingly drawing sigils over the windows and doors of the flat. To be quiet honest, it was making Crowley’s skin crawl, which was an interesting sensation when technically he had no skin to crawl, being a demon. 

Crowley had put up his own sigils, of course. He wasn’t stupid, and since that two-bit seventeenth century name-stealing hack Fergus had taken over business Downstairs, he wasn’t taking any chances. 

Fergus had been quick to get rid of most of the true demons, original angel stock, when he took charge. That had been fine, when Crowley had a big scary Antichrist to hide behind, but then Aziraphale’s people had gone _nuts_. Now there was a berserker Purgatory-eating angel running around trying to make the world a _better place._ Seriously. Angels. 

Nowhere to hide now. Ferg’d be gunning for Crowley, the last of the Fallen* —but that was the least of their worries at the moment. That angel was still out there.

“Is that a _devil’s trap?_ ” Crowley squawked. “Seriously?” 

Aziraphale glared at him. “Actually, it should capture anyone of ethereal or occult origin,” he said primly. “That is, Everyone.”

“… including me and you,” Crowley said slowly. Sometimes, Aziraphale was very stupid.

“Yes, well, we both know it’s here, don’t we?” he huffed. “And it’s keyed to me. Come here and I’ll key it to you, too. We’ll be exempt.”

“I don’t even want to know where you picked this up,” Crowley muttered. He strolled over and crouched down beside the angel, close enough so their shoulders brushed. 

Aziraphale leaned into him. “I know you’re frightened,” he murmured tenderly. Crowley scowled. 

“Who me? Nah.” His voice broke. “Hell’s under new management and the angels are in America. I’m not scared at all.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “I’m frightened too, you know. I fear Castiel’s gone mad. May I have your arm?”

Crowley sighed and held out his arm. Aziraphale lightly drew a finger across his wrist and the skin parted, gently and easily. Dipping his finger into the demon’s blood, Aziraphale began writing Crowley’s name – his true name – into the sigil. 

“He was the little guy, right?” Crowley asked slowly, unconcerned that the angel was essentially bleeding him. “Worked with Uriel. He wept.” 

The sigil glowed when Aziraphale finished it and connected it to the circle. “Many of us wept that day, my dear boy,” he murmured. He touched the demon’s wrist, and the wound closed. No pain. 

No pain ever. Not from Aziraphale, not for thousands of years. Crowley leaned more firmly into his shoulder and didn’t think about the Fall. Stupid angel, he thought fondly. “The _little guy_ swallowed Purgatory?” he demanded, horrified. 

“Not so little.” Aziraphale got to his feet, offering Crowley a hand and pulling him up. “He was promoted after the war, you know: archangel, lowercase a.” As opposed to uppercase A, which was a different rank, and entirely more terrifying. Angels were ridiculous. “You remember the scandal with Dean Winchester, of course.”

“First seal,” Crowley sneered. “Which, frankly, was stupid and arbitrary. I sent down a thousand righteous souls for years before I retired. ”

“They weren’t Michael’s vessel,” Aziraphale murmured uneasily. 

Crowley ignored him, because that was absurd. True, it did take quite a lot of paperwork and preposterous amounts of time to get the bloodlines and such instated to get a proper body for anyone of angel stock. Bodies didn’t grow on trees, after all, they grew in other bodies, and proper vessels were in very short supply. It took even more time to get the person out of a body – Crowley wasn’t such a fan of possession, and neither was Aziraphale, and the faster they could get the souls out the better - but in the end, it wasn’t _necessary._ If you were in a hurry, and didn’t care about the people inside, the way Michael didn’t, a fair amount of bodies would work just as well as an Official Vessel. 

“So he’s an archangel now?” 

“No. He was demoted again. Got too attached, apparently.” The angel grimaced. 

Crowley smirked. “Well, you’re screwed.” Aziraphale was beyond attached. Of course, so was Crowley. 

“No more than you, dear,” Aziraphale shot back. He crossed his arms. “Besides, I am a Principality. I was Created as one of the Cherubim, capital C; I guarded Eden after you got in, dear. It will take more than a lowercase-a-archangel to bring me down. ” 

Crowley snorted and poked Aziraphale’s stomach, which had been flabby for the last three hundred years or so. “Yes, very impressive,” he teased. Aziraphale grimaced at him. “Besides, that doesn’t change how screwed I am.” 

Aziraphale sighed. He wandered over to Crowley’s couch and sat, looking put out. “I thought the new, er, king liked you.”

“Oh, yeah, we go way back, Ferg and me.” Crowley scoffed. “ No gratitude in Hell, remember, angel? I only wanted to be left alone.” He sat next to Aziraphale and leaned on him again. The angel wrapped an arm supportively around his shoulder. 

“Listen, I told him, you pretend you’re me and go work the Crossroads. He gets out of Torments; I take all the credit while doing none of the work. Everyone wins, unless he pulls a blessed coup, and starts killing all the damn—the bless—the bloody Fallen!**”

“And Castiel killed Adam,” Aziraphale whispered. “We have no protection from either Side. Castiel will want me dead. I did not help his foolish war. And he will not spare you either, my dear.” He squeezed Crowley’s shoulder and continued morosely, “No one understands free will better than I. I chose not to fight. I chose you. Heaven will never comprehend choice. And now I shall burn for it.” 

“You haven’t Fallen yet,” Crowley tried to reassure him. The angel petted his arm. 

“No, I suppose not. My dear, dear boy.” He sighed. 

They leaned against each other, the angel and the demon. The sitting room, once modern and white, was covered in red and silver: the blood of an angel in his true form, or what passed for blood, anyway. Aziraphale was pulling all the stops. The walls, the ceiling, the trap by the door: everything keyed to keep everyone out. Even humans. 

Castiel was still in England, after all, burning out the traitors and the most corrupt. The Serpent of Eden and the Angel of the Eastern Gate had been fraternizing for centuries. Traitors, the both of them.

Crowley buried his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and another arm came up around him, held him hard and frightened. 

They sat together, and they waited. It wouldn’t be long now. 

 

 

*Sauntered.  
**Which, unfortunately, included the sauntered.


	2. From the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having not been killed by Castiel, Anthony Crowley endeavors to continue his existence. Unfortunately, the two-bit name-stealing hack Fergus has sent him on a suicide mission.

It was Crowley who knew first, of course.

Aziraphale felt the power leave the little angel in America, and his bright grin lightened the demon’s heart. But Crowley knew better. They were still screwed.

They were screwed because there were _Things_ in Purgatory that should never walk on Earth. There was a Leviathan in the deep, who slept and slept, the last of his kind on Earth. Once upon a time, crammed with thousands of animals in a tiny Ark, a bored Crowley had walked in his dreams.

They had been filled with black blood and hunger, old rage and fear of a portal, of a fate that befell its many brethren. Crowley knew about Purgatory. He had an inkling of what would happen.

Of course, Crowley was incompetent, so the inkling was wrong in every way possible. Nothing happened. They didn’t get smote by the angel Castiel. They didn’t get eaten by great Things from the deep.

What did happen was that the King of the Crossroads, and incidentally Hell, showed up in his sitting room as soon as Aziraphale had rubbed out his Sigils.

The angel disappeared with a wide-eyed yelp, and Crowley froze, of half a mind to follow.

“Hello, friend,” Fergus McLeod smirked.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Of all the bloody ridiculous ways to die, he thought with weary indignation. Here he was: traitor to his own kind twice over, the Serpent of Eden, Fallen Angel, a survivor of two apocalypses with at least one insane angel and one Duke of Hell out for his blood and he was going to get killed by a seventeenth century human with delusions of grandeur.  

And to make it worse, Aziraphale had gone and buggered off. Bastard.

“How’s the crown?” Crowley managed to squeak after that. “Nice job with the Apocalypse Part Deux. Us Earth-dwellers really appreciate it.”

“With no help from you, I noticed,” the slimy bastard drawled. He was smirking, of course.

He had Crowley by the short and curlies, and they both knew it. Crowley hadn’t fought anyone at all since the early twentieth century and he hadn’t _hurt_ anyone outside of war in far longer. He’d gone native, gone soft – or rather, stayed soft, having never really spent time in Hell – and Fergus knew it. Crowley had everything to lose. He would break in record time Down There. The only reason Ferg might keep him topside, what with Adam dead and not protecting him anymore, was because Crowley might be more useful with his brain intact than completely unhinged.

There was a small chance, of course, that Crowley could try a coup Downstairs – everyone thought they were the same person after all, as once upon a time Crowley had lent Ferg his name and got him off the rack. Crowley’d kept getting in trouble for being a lazy arse. He’d figured with two Crowleys running around, the paperwork would show him being the model citizen. The plan had worked beautifully, and after that Hell had left Crowley alone, mostly.

Crowley didn’t _want_ Hell. He wanted to stay on Earth. But what sort of demon was honest, anyway? It wasn’t like Ferg would believe him.

Crowley took a breath. Okay. Stay useful. “I was busy hiding behind the Antichrist.”

“Ah, yes. Your friend.” The demon smiled. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

It wasn’t grief that lanced Crowley’s heart. It wasn’t. Demons didn’t _do_ grief. Demons didn’t even _have_ hearts. “Dead.”

Ferg already knew that, of course. He wouldn’t have tried to get close otherwise.

“Pity.” Offhand, opportunity lost. Crowley gritted his teeth. Adam had been more than an _opportunity._ He’d been more human than them all. Of course, most demons didn’t care about that, even the human ones. “What can you tell me about Leviathan?”

Ah. So Great Things from the deep, it was. They were all going to die. “Run,” Crowley replied. “Run fast, and run hard.”

The King of the Crossroads, and incidentally Hell, raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Crowley blew out a breath that he technically didn’t need. “Look,” he said. “There’s one sleeping at the bottom of the Pacific, okay? No vessel; doesn’t need it—just this big, black formless _thing._ I listened to him when I hitched a ride on an Ark, once. All I know is this: _don’t wake him up._ The rest of his kind got shoved off to Purgatory, and good riddance.”

“Hmm,” Fergus murmured thoughtfully. “Weaknesses? Strengths? Desires? There must be something.”

He was looking for an angle. Well, of course he was, and he wasn’t tiptoeing around it either. No need, really. Crowley knew where he stood with Ferg. That was on his belly in the dust, though they really both wanted the same thing: not to be eaten or otherwise stepped on by the newcomers. And who better to help with an angle than the Serpent of Eden?

Unfortunately, no one had told the rest of the world that not only did the Serpent of Eden not want to play, but he was also _bad at playing_. Original Sin was an unmitigated _disaster_ , did no one _remember_ that?

“Only hunger,” Crowley said. “And intelligence.”

“That,” the demon sighed menacingly, “is hardly helpful.[1]” He looked at Crowley out of black, black eyes.

Human demons and their black eyes. It was blessed _creepy,_ was what it was. Crowley would take his own slit-pupilled yellow any day, even if it was horribly inconvenient Topside.

“You want me to spy?” Crowley offered at last. Useful meant alive, and not killed in a pre-emptive strike.

Useful also meant a high probability of being _eaten_. Where did he get off thinking _spying_ was a good idea?

“I’ll want reports.” The King of Hell wagged his finger.

“Get a sodding mobile phone, then. I’m not doing the blood thing.”

“I’m a stickler for tradition.[2] Toodles!” and he was gone.

“The blood thing,” Crowley told the empty air, “is _disgusting._ Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of a good suit? People _notice_ when you start killing them, you bastard!”

No one answered him, of course. Crowley made a frustrated noise. “AZIRAPHALE!”

“No need to _shout,_ ” the angel murmured indignantly. His eyes were bright and his hair a little windswept. The hideous tweed suit looked disheveled.

“Did you just abandon me to the mercies of the King of Hell to go _flying?_ ” Crowley demanded incredulously.

“Er,” said the angel. A small, fluffy white feather tumbled incriminatingly from his hair.

“You did, didn’t you?” Crowley stepped up and caught the feather as it fell with his thumb and forefinger. He held it up and raised an eyebrow. “You hate flying.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Well, there is quite the difference between not flying out of choice and not being _able_ to fly, isn’t there dear boy? We’ve been hiding behind Adam for, oh, thirty years now, haven’t we? And then he was dead, and we had to, er, hide more. I wonder what happened to Castiel.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Crowley groaned. “I have a plan,” he added unconvincingly.

“Imbibing more alcohol than humanly possible?” Aziraphale muttered. “That was rather my plan.”

“Good one,” Crowley said weakly.

The angel had miracled a bottle of wine, but he hesitated before holding it out. “What have you done, Crowley?”

“Give it here,” the demon said. “I promise I need it more than you do.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. He handed over the wine.

Crowley uncorked it and drank it straight from the bottle. “Tell me about it,” he groaned.

\---

“But m’the, the Principalityof the English subcontinent, dear boy ” Aziraphale slurred indignantly. “M’not going to America!”

“Leave me t’die than, will you?” Crowley demanded drunkenly, hurt. “Just get eaten by, by Great Things from the Deep—”

“You will get eaten,” Aziraphale growled, not very menacingly, “Overmydead body.”

“S’what’s going to happen.” Crowley gazed morosely into the bottom of his wine glass.

“You will not!” Aziraphale rallied him. “You will not! You’re clever. Wiles. Wily, Crowley. You couldwile your way out of a paper bag.”

“Aziraphale. _Anyone_ can wile their way out of a paper bag. S’madeof paper.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “See! There you go, dear boy! I know _I_ certainly don’ have it inme to wile my way outof a paper bag.”

“No, no,” Crowley shook a finger, concerned that apparently Aziraphale might stay stuck in a paper bag _forever._ “You just wet it. Or tear it. It’s only _paper,_ angel.”

“ _You’d_ get me outof a paper bag. If I were stuck.” Aziraphale’s smile became less manic and more tender.

“’Course I would. ‘Course I would. Goes without saying.” Crowley smiled back, warm and drunk and affectionate. “Why areyou in a paper bag?”

“Hy—hypothh—hyposs—if it were to happen.”

“I’d get you out,” Crowley said seriously. “I’m clever. You said it. Wily.”

“Wilier than a, a wily thing.”

“Coyote.”

“What?”

“Coyote. They’re wily. Saw it onna thing. TV. Special.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh. Do they have those, in America?”

“I’m gonna get eaten!” Crowley wailed. “Levia-things! An’ hunters! D’you know America is _crawling_ with hunters? Sodding Azazel and his sodding plans. Been wandering ‘round there for centuries. You know what I’d like, angel?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d like to see _Azazel_ plan something like the M-25,” Crowley sneered viciously. “Doesn’t have a, a drop of ina—inaga— _creativity_ in him, that over-achieving bastard. Good _riddansssce._ ”

“Didn’t he start the apocalypse?” Aziraphale murmured.

“Moron! You know what Hell on earth _is_ , angel?”

“Weren’t _you_ supposed to start the apocalypse?”

Crowley ignored this.

“It’s _Hell._ On Earth. Why, why would anyone, ever, want that? I mean actually want that?”

“S’all they ever want,” Aziraphale mumbled, sinking in his chair. “My people. Yours. Conquer, conquer, conquer. All it ever does is—is—” the angel gestured drunkenly, apparently trying to encompass how an empire might collapse without saying ‘go to Hell’.

“Why does no one want Earth on Earth?” Crowley sighed. “Thass what I want. Earth on Earth.”

“Mmmmaybe that’s what the Levia—leviathings want?” the angel suggested hopefully.

“No. Lunch on Earth.” Crowley scowled. “And I’m the appetizer. Hors d'oeuvres. Snake flambé.”

“Probably more like a tartar, dear boy. I doubt they’d set you on fire.”

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

Crowley buried his face in his hands. “They will not eat you!” Aziraphale hissed then, and groped around until he grabbed Crowley’s wrist. “You—you hide. You’re goodat hiding.”

Crowley gazed up hopelessly at the angel. Aziraphale shook his arm. “You hide, Crowley! You can’t die. You can’t! What would I do without you, dear boy? It’d be all—all—” he waved his other hand. “Unbalanced. Buggered. _Need_ you, you old serpent.”

“Come with me,” Crowley whispered.

“Oh, you stupid—” Aziraphale bowed his head and pulled Crowley’s wrist so it rested against the angel’s forehead. “Of course I will. Of course I will. Principality be damned! Er.”

“Figuratively,” Crowley added helpfully.

“Right.”

\---

 

[1] Which was, as a matter of fact, a lie. Crowley-King-Of-Hell did take the Serpent’s advice into account. He was no fool, and the Serpent, besides being a wet blanket (you should never meet your idols), was also occasionally intelligent. Little known fact. Crowley-King-Of-Hell knew that you didn’t survive six thousand years on Earth without _some_ brains. 

So he brought Leviathan muffins. Just in case.

 

 

[2] Also a lie. But he so liked watching the Serpent squirm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It does end kind of abruptly, I know! The rest of the story isn't cooperating, but this part stands pretty well on it's own, I think. You might see more, you might not - depends on how the rest works out!


End file.
